The Triangular Theory of Love
by Kimerald
Summary: Some may prefer to reach their lover's height so their kisses are reachable, but Misa is not one of them. A short, one-sided one-shot reflecting Light/Misa.


**Obvious Warning/Notification:** Death Note legally belongs to their creators.

This is a Light/Misa one-sided, short one-shot. It takes place at the second arc, when Misa had discarded her memories for the second time.  
I had no strong motive when writing this, so it may have been sloppy. Please excuse any false interpretations of timing and character.

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INTIMACY

Whenever they stand hand in hand, he towers over her quite manifestly due to their varying heights, and it creates such an inconvenience for her that she has to make an endeavor in curling her tiptoes to contact his cheek and seldom his lips. Because of this matter, she feels it's the cause of their affections being so sporadic. He must relate, she believes, since it's troublesome for him needing to bend down for her, as it's needing to lift herself upward for him. But when she complains every so often on their restrictions, she knows in those cavernously brown, persuasive eyes of his why he doesn't attempt to handle the situation. There was simply nothing to help the issue.

Surreptitiously she doesn't mind it though. His underdeveloped muscles that reside on his chest, hidden beneath the cloth that doesn't prevent him from dispensing warmness, is her refuge, and missing an opportunity to crush all her mass against him whenever is out of the question; it's simply not the same if their heights were rightly leveled. Hungrily, fanatically the surface of her face that presses against him tries to give back the same heat he does, but it's not as if he minds her efforts, fine or poor. It's as if although in the wintry, chilliest nights, he never requires even a blouse (and she infatuates on that ideal image) because his warmth is vast; he's a glowing fire, skin radiant and bronzed, reminding her of the crevices of the earth or perhaps the golden sun.

Note to self: the earth's star has a wonderful smell.

Conversely the feel of his flesh didn't ensure any protection or safety no matter how many times she tries to convince herself. She considers it unusual too because her romance novels say that she should feel as if he is her knight in shining armor, so isn't it all set in stone? It's her intuition that speaks differently: he's treacherous, secluded, ruthless. It was a distinctive feeling to her, but she never questions for once again she doesn't mind. The underhanded ecstasy that bottles in her stomach is satisfied with the darkness, requests it; just like her, it's needy and always famished.

With this, only recently did she realize that the polite and tender individual is a façade, a deceiver to the midst of society. He keeps a secret life, she calls it, and the moment they make any sort of physical contact, she tries to be part of that unknown realm because she's simply a wonderer, a victim of curiosity. Every time they touch, she tries to enter his territory and wander about towards his cosseted pathways. She sees and feels the fire that blocks her path, and she blows hard, tries with greatest valor to traverse the scorching fire and the rocky obstacles, but it irrevocably leads to failure. Because when he departs, the warmth dissipates and the flames she nearly crosses become the arctic ice, and she's suddenly cold. Abandoned.

She isn't stupid, she tells herself, for she can feel through his incomprehensible façade – even though she cannot see through it.

PASSION

Now and again she arrives home – prior to his arrival, as always – with a wavering scent of cheap alcohol – the good kind nowadays – and she stumbles, laughs, collapses uncharacteristically onto the couch and gazes blissfully at the inactive television screen, and tries to recollect the moments that occurred an hour primordially, but she doesn't succeed. She cannot recall how the men grope her, or how she seduces them when stripping off an inconsequential article of clothing and hips swaying about, or how her female friend crashes liquor-flavored lips against her own and grinds and grabs her lightly with giggly, teasing intent. It's astonishing how she remains virgin in their hands.

The truth doesn't escape her mouth, but he always has a way of knowing.

In her own chocolate eyes sheltered with sky-blue contacts, she sees him appear through the entrance with a preoccupied, strict face, and she disregards it, beams gleefully at him and embraces. Her intoxicated state makes her ravenous, and if it didn't displease him enough to make him cringe, she would have slid her petite hands under his blouse and stroke the burning flesh that makes her feel her beloved rapture. She squirms in him a bit when his arms drape around her body – always a bit higher than her preference – and she ignores 'you're drunk' because she's too busy craving more and more.

Of course she doesn't receive anything; he never gives it when she's incoherent. She bears in mind the rule of being sober and pouts as he releases from her, exits to their bedroom and lays on their large bed fully clothed. Joining beside him, her nestling every so often makes him twist over to where he's no longer facing her, which often catalyzes a whine till she settles for his back. It burns just as the rest of his flesh, but it's composed more of bone than muscle in which she frowns at.

She always recalls later that alcohol is a depressant. When morning cracks through the linen curtains that cause her eyelids to unfasten, he has already departed for work, but she knows this already and doesn't mind. She infers that her skull is fractured and that she swallowed something harsh and pernicious, so she sprints and reaches the toilet and vomits.

Afterwards she's convinced her internal parts are depressing, so her head hangs back, throat sore and distasteful, and she leaves her lower body situated onto the freezing tiles; she always waits to heal. Then she whines high-pitched – her method of 'crying with the exclusion of tears' – for a few moments at her infidelity and filth before shutting up eventually, pulling her head back to gawk at her own vomit she hasn't discarded. Subsequently her lips curve, and she smiles optimistically and says to herself how he loves her and would never leave. She's sure.

COMMITMENT

On every occasion she's received a break from her director – which is each day due to the director's sympathetic irritability – she collects her friends, busybodies just like her, and struts towards their miniature café that dwells beside a chain of boutiques exquisitely for the aristocracy. What matters to her is not their destination but to have the time to associate with her kinfolk: gossipy, loquacious actresses alike. Because their fairy-tales spread around like bees in a patch of assorted flowers, air diffuses inside their bubbly heads only to release once they grasp a hold of their breath. Repeat ad infinitum.

It's an art, she assumes, to converse with such speed in an intricate language just to express how their directors most likely never got laid, how celebrities from the opposing drama should "get a life," or how it feels to have their lovers' arms wrapped closely and compassionately around them. Moments like this are typically part of her vocational routine, and she favors it all, but she can take pleasure in it more if he was ever present.

Her most preferred part is when they cross the bridal boutique, and the complexly frilly, colorless gowns are exhibited on black mannequins. The instant they swagger pass that very store, the noises of her friends, pedestrians and cars seem to drone out to oblivion, and she awakes to her imagination of the perfect marriage ceremonial. Her dress, white with customary, imprinted designs, is considered so flawlessly that his arms easily glide around her waist, and her hands in lacey, silk gloves place themselves tenderly on his shoulders. Sometimes he's wearing entirely black, other times it's white with black trimming; her mind is simply indecisive.

It's the power of her friends – and occasionally the street pole – that convey her back into reality where there is no stunning dress, or sparkling lights glazing upon her, or him. She frowns first the way she would curve her lips when pouting but after a moment laughs, saying how she ridiculously lost herself in her thoughts. The enchantment of her imagination drifts away like debris in the stream, and she's already on a new subject, her infatuation settling aside.

All conversations do not last forever.


End file.
